


Come Undone

by GaryTheFish



Series: Hope is a Four Letter Word [43]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Established Relationship, F/M, Loki - Canon Divergence, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-08-15 23:21:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8076820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GaryTheFish/pseuds/GaryTheFish
Summary: We'll try to stay blind To the hope and fear outside

  Who do you need Who do you love when you come undone?
(Because sometimes you have to be reminded that you’re the one who's still alive.)





	

_He does not forget their brief conversation prior to Wintersnight. It begins to gnaw at him harder after the Halloween celebration is finished; over the next few days, he watches the news with a sense of dread, and only after she has gone to bed. It is everywhere, this observance of the Battle of New York, as it is now called, unless it is called the Incident, which is almost worse. It sounds shameful, as though Loki should be embarrassed to have been a part of it. He prefers the first, since in his mind the Incident refers to something much different. A gift, and the discovery of a betrayal that nearly destroyed her. Quieter than the invasion. Much more personal, and still not as devastating as Whitebridge._

_He doesn’t care about the anniversary of New York, though given his involvement, he probably should. It is merely another day, notable mostly for the fact that they both survived when they had absolutely no business doing so. He only cares about what happened three and a half days before the battle, a moment that most will know nothing about but that is infinitely more important. An anniversary he wishes he could compress into minutes or seconds, much as it felt when he first experienced it._

_Whitebridge. The day Coulson died._

_They had largely ignored the festivities the night before; the memories of battle are still too fresh for her to truly appreciate any sort of explosions these days, and he has never much cared for them. They had shut the curtains, chosen wind and waves for their white noise (on the loudest setting) and had gone to bed early._

_Her side of the bed is empty when he wakes in the morning, and it has been for quite some time, the sheets cold and no indent in the pillow. He showers and dresses quickly, pulling on a shirt as he leaves the bedroom. Her still-damp towel hangs in the guest bathroom down the hall, the one that used to be hers alone, so at least she has been functional this morning. He takes that as a good sign but nearly changes his mind when he enters the kitchen and sees her sitting at the table with her head buried in her arms, a stone cold cup of tea forgotten at her elbow. She lifts her face when he sits across from her, and he is surprised to see her eyes are tired but clear, and there is no sign that she has wept. It worries him more than he likes._

_“I couldn’t sleep,” she says as though it is her fault. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”_

_“No.” He strokes his knuckles along her cheek. “But I wish you had. Where did you go?”_

_A gentle shrug. “The roof. After a while, anyway. Once all the fireworks were done.”_

_“Without a coat, I’ll wager.”_

_She looks down at the table with another shrug, and he wishes he could take the words back, foolish as they are. He looks at the smooth wooden surface, as well. “What would you like to do?” he asks. “We should have planned for this better.”_

_“I was hoping you would tell me,” she replies, and he cannot bear to see her so lost in her own home. He stands and offers her his hand._

_“Come on,” he says. She is pliant and quiet as she comes to her feet, and he leads her to the closet, tucking her into her coat and tying her scarf in her signature knot. He puts on his own things and follows her out the door. She says nothing in the elevator on the way down, but her fingers are so tight in his that he eventually slips her hand around his arm instead, hoping that the heavy leather might prevent an ache similar to the one already throbbing in his fingers._

_He avoids the train, walking instead through the cold, sunny streets and glad that London’s weather has chosen to cooperate on this day, at least. He doesn’t think either one of them could stomach a rainstorm today. They range far and wide, talking only occasionally. A preternatural calm surrounds her; she seems peaceful and a little detached, but her fingers are clenched on his arm as they cross innumerable streets and weave in and out of London’s foot traffic. They try to visit shops or gardens, but she cannot hold still long enough to make any attempt worthwhile, and so they keep going. At last she seems to relax, a faint, occasional smile blooming on her lips, and he thinks it safe to find something to eat._

_They duck into a cafe and sit near the window. He smooths his hands along hers on the cool stone tabletop, but her gaze is suddenly captured by something over his shoulder, and he turns, knowing what he will see._

_He has missed the television behind the counter, tucked away and not visible from the doorway, and by the time he recognizes the images, it is already too late. The table beneath their hands trembles, and he meets eyes that have taken on pure silver._

_“Take me home,” she says, her voice distant. “Take me home.”_

_Apologies to the man behind the counter, sandwiches tucked into her bag, and they are out the door again in moments. Three hours of roaming through London has brought them far from their flat, so he takes a chance with the Underground and gently herds her onto a train. It is crowded, as he feared it would be, but she links her arms around his waist, face buried in his shoulder blade. He holds the rail with one hand and covers her hands with the other. The time passes quickly enough; her breaths are almost even against him, and he rubs his thumb across her knuckles as they reach their stop. The ride up the elevator is excruciatingly slow, and when he tries to say something to her, or to apologize, she merely shakes her head silently and watches the numbers climb._

_The front door has barely closed behind him when she grabs a handful of his shirt and yanks him down for a kiss, hungry and seeking and sharp with need. She pulls back just long enough for him to fumble her messenger bag over her head and drop it to the floor; he kicks it to the side, and their coats, scarves and shoes soon join it. Her fingers cup his neck, lips warm on his throat as he lifts her in his arms and carries her to their room and to their bed, still unmade from this morning._

_“Please” is all she says with a catch in her voice, and he comforts her in the way he could not last year, with teeth and tongue and fingers and lips and soft words against her bare skin. Her release comes with an intensity that surprises them both; she screams his name as she shatters beneath his touch, and it is though a dam has burst. She weeps at last, muffling her sobs until he crawls up the mattress and pries her hands from her mouth, wrapping himself around her and holding her together as he has done so many times before._

_A lifetime later she is empty; her fingers drift aimlessly on his skin as he cradles her against him. Her motions become more deliberate, and his body responds. They do not leave the bed for hours, and it is sweet and hot and gentle and desperate by turns until they sprawl bonelessly together in the half-light of dusk, her head on his chest and his fingers lazy in the sweat-soaked curls on her neck._

_She eventually rises, heading for the shower, and after a few minutes his arms grow lonely and so he joins her. She is rinsing her hair; her eyes are closed but she smiles at the draft when he closes the glass door behind him. She scrubs his back and body as he washes his own hair; her fingers brush against him. Once is an accident, twice is not, and then it is slippery, open-mouthed kisses with her back pressed to the tiles as the water sluices around them. Her nails dig into his back while her legs go around his waist, and he growls softly into the beads of water on her shoulder as he rocks his hips in time with hers._

_Another scrub, this one quick and shivering since they have used all the hot water again, and she hands him his towel as she grabs another for herself. Clean, warm clothes, and then she helps him make their ravaged bed, pressing her lips almost primly to his jaw while he slips a new case onto his pillow._

_“I love you,” she says as they return to the entryway, picking up coats and scarves, tossing forgotten sandwiches, and he tells her that he loved her first, as he always does when he is teasing. They end up in a familiar tangle on the couch, her legs in his lap to ensure he doesn’t go too far away and plates balanced wherever they can find space. He raises his glass to her in a silent toast, and they drink in celebration of two lives - to the one no longer here but never forgotten, and to this strange, wonderful one they were never meant to have._

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback appreciated, as always. :) You all are the best! <3
> 
> Title and lyric by Duran Duran.
> 
> (author's note: the fireworks the text refers to are for Guy Fawkes Day. this one shot takes place on November 6th, if anyone (besides me) has been keeping a calendar.)


End file.
